My Birth Story: My VBAC Didn't Work Out — and That's Okay

Every birth story is unique. In our series, “My Birth Story,” we’ve asked moms from all over the world to share their experiences of how they welcomed their little ones into the world. Here, you'll find a range of stories, from moms who delivered vaginally or via C-section, alone or surrounded by family, even some moms who gave birth in under an hour. Their perspectives may all be different — but each one powerfully illustrates the emotion and beauty of giving birth.

When I became pregnant with my second child, I felt a lot of self-imposed pressure to prepare for his birth. Labor for my firstborn had ended in a cesarean section after my contractions stalled and his heart rate dropped. Before I became pregnant again, my doctor had mentioned I may be a good candidate for a VBAC—vaginal birth after cesarean. So after I saw the second pink line on that pregnancy test, I made up my mind: I was going to have the vaginal birth I wanted, and I would do everything I could to make it happen.

I scoured online VBAC forums to find the keys to success. I exercised regularly right up to my due date, running and then walking when my belly became too big. I lifted weights and did yoga. I ordered a giant exercise ball and bounced on it constantly in an effort to keep my pelvis open and aligned correctly.

On my due date, like clockwork, I woke up to cramping. When I went to the bathroom, I saw that I was losing my mucus plug.

“Uh, I think something is happening,” I said to my husband. Then I went into the kitchen and made pancakes for my son, leaning on the kitchen counter when waves of pain came over me.

After about an hour, it became clear: these were real contractions, and they were steadily increasing in frequency and severity. I called my OB's office. The nurse told me to keep tracking the contractions but not to head in yet.

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By the time my sister-in-law arrived to watch my son, my contractions were about three minutes apart and intensely painful. On the ride to the hospital, I grabbed on to the handle of the door and shrieked as searing pain passed through me. I told my husband to drive faster and tried not to think about all the stories I had heard about babies being born in the backseat of a car.

It was a Sunday morning and the labor and delivery department was fairly quiet when we arrived. The nurses and midwives set me up in the triage room.

After awhile, I noticed the nurses checking the readout on my monitor and giving each other meaningful looks. I heard one nurse say “Well, we'll see,” to another.

“We'll see? What does that mean?” I gasped out in between contractions. I had rolled onto my side, which seemed to help with the pain.

“Let's take it one step at a time,” she said.

By the time they rolled me from triage into the delivery room, I was letting out a deep animal-like growl with each contraction. The nurse told me to focus on breathing. I would have laughed at her had I not been so overwhelmed with pain.

Then, during a particularly bad contraction, the room flooded with nurses. My husband and I looked at each other, panicked.

“Get the OB,” one of the nurses called. “Honey, you need to roll onto your back, now.” I tried to comply, but I was in the middle of a paralyzing contraction. Gently but firmly, the nurse rolled me over. “Your baby's heart rate just crashed,” she yelled over the chaos of the room. “We might be looking at surgery soon.”

“Please,” I said. “Just let me try.”

The nurse squeezed my hand and said kindly, “We have to do what's best for baby.”

My doctor came into the room. She marched to my monitor, read the print-out of our vitals and turned to me, deeply serious. “Your baby's heart rate is dropping dangerously low with each contraction. We're going to have to do a c-section, and we don't have time for an epidural.”

I burst into tears. “I want to be awake for the birth,” I pleaded. After all my effort and the pain I had endured, I couldn't believe my labor was going to end like this.

“This is urgent, Kerry,” she said in a gentler tone. “We have to get the baby out now.” The gravity of her statement grounded me and my priorities changed swiftly: I just wanted my baby delivered safely.

Within a few minutes, the team had prepped me for surgery. Because I had to be put under general anesthesia, my husband was sent to another room to wait. I wept and watched the lights on the ceiling as they rolled me to the OR.

The anesthesiologist placed a mask over my face, but the contractions were still crashing like waves as the anesthesia kicked in. I yelled into the mask in pain, and then everything went dark.

Then I woke up, feeling like I was underwater, slowly floating to the surface.

“Is my baby OK?” I called out.

“Yes,” someone said softly. I looked up and saw one of the nurses checking my vitals. “We'll bring him in in just a few minutes.”

I was still overwhelmed and dizzy, and I felt nervous to hold him in the state I was in. “I don't know if I'm ready.”

The nurse laughed a little. “Well, he's ready for you.”

The doors to the recovery room opened and another nurse pushed in a bassinet. I saw my son, swaddled in the standard blue and white blanket, with a green knitted hat on his head. He looked at me with his dark, curious eyes and my fear and nervousness disappeared. My baby was here, and we were going to be fine.

But in the weeks after we went home, I struggled emotionally. I would put him down to sleep in the middle of the night and then let myself cry, sobbing into a pillow so I didn't wake him up. I was horrified thinking about what could have happened to both of us, and disappointed over not having the birth I had worked so hard for. I felt embarrassed and ashamed to have put myself and my baby through this traumatic experience.

It took about six weeks before things began to improve. As the stitches at the base of my belly closed up, I felt my heart healing as well. I found comfort in an online group of moms who had also given birth recently. During night feedings, I turned to them, listening to their experiences with traumatic labor and sharing my own. I finally felt seen and heard by talking to people who could understand what I had been through.

With their help, I'm able to see my birth experience as just that—an experience. It was hard and scary, but it didn't define me as a woman or a mom. Like a lot of other parenting decisions, I did what I thought was best for my family and myself, and I learned a lot by living through it.

This story is meant to reflect individual contributors' experiences and does not necessarily reflect What to Expect's point of view. This content is not intended to be used as medical advice, for diagnosis, or treatment.